


Meeting of Minds

by sarhea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Community: hermione_smut, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dom Sherlock, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light BDSM, Possessive Sherlock, Romance, Submissive Hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarhea/pseuds/sarhea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing games net Hermione Granger a bit of extra income and an unexpected romantic interest. Socializing results in Sherlock Holmes meeting a female who can match his intellect and interests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting of Minds 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please take this as AU since I’m not staying true to canon plotline and some OOC is to be expected — this is fanfiction people.  
> \- Timeline shift for Potterverse 10 years into the future. The Golden Trio started school in 2001 not 1991, Harry born 1990 not 1980, Battle of Hogwarts in 2007, etc. Harry Potter, AU starting before Deathly Hallows epilogue. B7EWE.  
> Warnings: graphic sexual imagery. Not for Young Innocent Minds.  
> Spoilers: Sherlock S3, Magnussen and Moriarty.  
> Beta: My lovely beta BT, thank you for your patience. Any mistakes still in are mine, from last minute tweaks.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hermione Granger, Potterverse and co, J.K. Rowling does. I do not own BBCs Sherlock and co, Moffatt and Gatniss do. I’m simply playing with the characters without making any money from this. The plot alone is mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
> For: LJ Community hermione-smut Round8. Many thanks to Keelhaulrose for organizing this round, and the deadline extension.  
> 3: Prompt: Sapiosexual: One who is attracted to intelligence or the human mind. A few years after graduating from Hogwarts Hermione has, for fun and a bit of profit, taken to going to pub trivia nights. She's the only one of her friends who is not currently attached and she is starting to feel like the constant third wheel when invited along places, and the trivia nights have given her an excuse to turn down invitations. Things have gone smoothly, she's been easily winning most (or all) of the matches she goes to. Then one night she finds herself in a battle of wits with a young man who can recite facts like a human computer. She finds his intelligence is a complete turn-on, and he seems to have the same feeling towards her.  
> HP/Sherlock- Hermione/Sherlock  
> HP/Marvel- Hermione/Loki  
> Additional comments: Bonus points if the chosen paramour has noticed Hermione at a previous trivia game and prepared for the next one in order to impress her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione knows it is not easy being single when everyone around is married. Sherlock encounters someone who Intrigues him.

“Hermione, do you have any plans for tonight?”

Hermione Granger resisted the urge to bite her lip and say no, just to hear what would follow. Because she had a pretty good idea of it. ‘You must come to dinner and meet A Wizard. I think you’ll like him.’ Thankfully she could be honest and avoid the matchmaking. “Sorry Ginny. I have other plans.”

Ginny Potter huffed. “What plans? You have no social life!”

And it was true. Sort of. Kind of. But not quite. “Actually I do. In the Muggle world.”

Ginny frowned. “Muggle world?” Her lips twisted into something not quite derisive but very close.

For all the Weasley claims to be Muggle-lovers and blood-traitors they did not understand the greater non-magical world and Hermione’s strong attachment to it. It was the reason why she had broken up with Ron and resisted all urgings to ‘make-up’. She did not want to ‘make-up’ and settle for someone who looked down on where Hermione came from.

“Yes, the Muggle world. They have hundreds of music bands and there are always musical concerts or events going on. And art gallery showings and live theatre and movies and museum events—.”

“Yes, yes!” Ginny cut off the older witch impatiently. “But none of that is going to help you find a husband.” Hermione bit her tongue to cut off the caustic comment that she didn’t want a husband. “No one sees you other than at work and you never ever socialize at work! Don’t you want a husband and family?” Ginny asked in a coaxing voice, as if she were trying to lure in a wild animal with treats. “I just want you to be happy as I am.”

And the sad thing was Ginny was being honest. It was the bane of every single witch — all your married friends wanted to see you married and ‘happy’ as they were. Too bad Hermione knew she would never be happy with a wizard, even a fellow Muggleborn. She had spent too much time investing herself in her birth world. It began as a knee jerk reaction to resist the magical world that was drawing her away from the parents who she dearly loved. As she grew older the non-magical world became a refuge from the chaos, pain, pressure, and bigotry she experienced in wizarding society. It was her birthplace, her homeland, and she was not willing to give it up for a society that did not truly accept her for all that she was. They kept trying to pigeon box her into a specific slot and bury her and Hermione did not like that.

“I am happy Ginny. I have lots of hobbies and non-work interests. Unfortunately no witch or wizard is interested in what I like.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I attend the lecture nights offered by Muggle universities and I haven’t met a single witch or wizard there? I have season tickets to various theatres and music halls and everyone I asked said they weren’t interested in joining me?”

Ginny blushed because She had been one of those who Hermione had asked. And she had said no. Fleur was the only one who had accepted Hermione’s invitations to go to a few music concerts but after Dominique was born Fleur began refusing the invitations, preferring to stay at home with her baby.

“So what are you doing tonight?” she asked, determined to try and change Hermione’s mind about meeting Harry’s new auror partner, an exchange auror from Italy.

“I’m meeting a few friends at a pub. They are Muggles who I met at a high-energy physics lecture series. We have the most interesting discussions over a few drinks.”

Ginny made a face. The redhead was not academically inclined; she was more interested in results than theory and research. She also knew Hermione was interested in theory and had fun studying and reading. Moments like this Ginny had serious doubts about the Sorting Hat’s mental state because it put Hermione in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw. Still, Ginny was smart enough to cut her losses. Pushing Hermione never accomplished anything.

“All right then. We do expect you to have lunch with us this Saturday.”

Hermione smiled. “Of course. I’ll definitely stay a bit after. I haven’t seen the kids for a few weeks.”

“You’ve been busy on the weekends.”

“A personal project.”

“Is it finished?”

“Not quite. But it’s getting there.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

Hermione laughed. “Nope. You’ll find out when I’m ready.” She glanced at her wrist, an old-fashioned quartz wristwatch that was not affected by magic. “And I have to run now. I have a meeting in twenty minutes I have to prep for.”

Ginny sighed as she watched the curly haired brunette settle her lunch bill and rush off.

 

~ooOoo~

 

Hermione Granger had a secret her magical friends were not aware of. She preferred entertaining herself in the Muggle world — it was cultural and intellectually stimulating, constantly challenging to exercise and develop her intellectual and critical thinking skills — and it was also monetarily profitable.

She had not originally thought of it as a source of income. She had not thought of pub trivia nights at all. It had simply been something she had fallen into. When her new uni-lecture acquaintances invited her to the pub after a lecture night she had said yes to fit it. When they asked her to join them in the trivia rounds she had said yes to fit it. She had not expected to do as good as she had done that first night. Hundred pounds for spending a few hours doing something she liked: using her brain and sharing her knowledge. Easy money.

A little bit of research and casual questioning gave her more information. Many pubs in all the big British cities had some sort of regular trivia night. You paid a small entrance fee and if you won, you or your team took the pot home. Hermione had researched all the pubs in the British Isles with the biggest trivia night pots, the day of week/month they held trivia night. Apparation and portkeys made it easy for her to play in different cities almost every three to four nights a week. If the prize was a gift card or tech toy, or credit for a tab at the pub, it was not difficult to sell it at slightly below market value for hard cold cash; cash that would help her achieve her dream of working independently as a consultant and doing private research.

Currently any truly ground breaking work she did would belong for the ministry due to a buried clause in the standard Ministry employee contract. She needed to resign before she started working on her ideas with real economic potential. Hermione did not want to ask anyone for a loan — Gringotts, Harry, Neville — she did not want to be obligated or tied to another’s interests. She wanted to be free to do what she wanted, study what interested her be it magical or Muggle. She had no desire to become like all other witches and wizards, without logic or critical thinking or scientific methods. Thanks to this new source of income she was almost at her goal of financial independence. Just fifteen more big pots and she could resign from the Ministry of Magic.

Besides pub trivia nights gave her a legitimate excuse to turn down invitations from well-meaning friends trying to hook her up with any single wizard.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

 

“Aglets.”

This was the hundred and twenty fourth game she was playing.

“Fredrick Banting.”

She’d taken the main prize in eighty percent of the games, deliberately throwing fifteen percent to take second place, and honestly winning the second place prize in the remaining five percent.

“Mercia.”

Her name and face had become well known in the trivia circuits.

“Boudicca.”

Some of the pub owners had suspected her of cheating but had not been able to prove it because she was not cheating; she was just that good.

“Iron Maiden.”

Her Muggle friends had urged her to sign up for the larger televised events, because the pots were larger, but she preferred not to.

“Luminol.”

There were Muggleborns and half-bloods who watched the telly and she did not want anyone from the enclaves to find out what she was doing.

“Patella.”

She was pretty confident this pot would be hers. Her hundred and twenty fifth.

“Pardon me but I would like to cut in.”

Hermione blinked and looked up at the voice that had thrown off her rhythm. A tall slim man dressed in a dark grey bespoke suit and maroon shirt, no tie and expensive Italian shoes had stepped into the central area and was walking to the trivia night host. He was rather attractive with a mop of dark brown curls and pale milky skin.

The host clearly recognized him. “Mr Holmes! It is an honour—” Then his expression fell. “Are you here on business? A case?” It set a wave of murmurs among the audience. Many of them recognized him and it confused Hermione. Just who was this Mr Holmes? On a case? Was he a bobby?

“No! No. I’m here with Doctor Watson. He is attempting to expand my cultural horizons to include pub trivia nights. And it would be most unfair if I were to play but I wish to do so. Simply for the experience, not the prize.”

The host looked confused and turned towards the bar where an older gentleman nodded vigorously. Presumably the shift manager or pub owner.

“Mr Holmes, like you said it would be unfair for our regular contestants so how about this… Once this round is over and the winners settled we’ll have an extra round for the top three and you. No prize but bragging rights. How does that sound?”

“He’s Sherlock Bloody Holmes. I’m not going to pit my brain against his!” Someone from one of the contestant tables shouted.

Sherlock Holmes snorted. “And I am not interested in playing against You.”

“Then who do you want to play against?” A tipsy bottle blonde yelled from the audience.

He moved swiftly to stand across Hermione’s table and leaned forward close enough for Hermione to see his face. Defined planes, long nose with large flared nostrils, high defined cheekbones, full cupid-bow lips, slanted pale blue-green-gold flecked eyes.

“Her.” “Sectoral heterochromia.”

He blinked rapidly. “You are correct. I do have sectoral heterochromia.” He cocked his head to one side. “Only child of upper-middle-class parents. Dentists. Private boarding school. Experienced a great deal of stress in your late teen years. Bullying? PTSD? But no substance abuse. Work in an office or research position that requires you to handle and read printed or out-of-print books. From the ink stains on your fingers, a fountain pen, no… a quill user?” He concluded incredulously. “Who on earth uses quills these days?”

Hermione controlled the reflex to flinch and smiled blandly. “Alternative boarding school. Writing lines is more difficult with quills and it makes students more wary about breaking rules. I got a taste for it. I’m also part of a historical re-enactment group.”

He gave her a half-confused half-intrigued look. “You like order and guidelines. It shows in your wardrobe.” His face twisted. “But not all rules. You pick and choose what you follow and what you break. It shows in your carved ivory and bone accessories. Not very PC of you,” he added but not disapprovingly.

A not-a-witch-Hermione would have agreed but witch-Hermione knew natural material were the best conductors and capacitors of magic. And gems were much more expensive than carved bone, horn and antlers. Of course she could not say this, but she also could not resist teasing the very intelligent and very logical Muggle. “When I break rules I tend to throw them out the window Mr Holmes. You seem to be the same sort.”

He looked affronted. “I do Not follow rules!” he proclaimed haughtily.

“Sure you do. You’re wearing clothes. That’s a society rule. If you truly didn’t care you’d go around naked and risk frostbite and getting arrested.” Hermione countered cheerily. “And there is gravity. If you weren’t subject to it you’d be floating off into space.”

He set his hands on the table and leaned forward. She could see his eyes moving rapidly over her, ruthlessly examining and taking in every inch of her, spotting all flaws and tells. Hermione remained still. She had been subjected to worse and personally insulting scrutiny from purebloods and bigots. He might be able to deduce her personal history but he would never deduce she was a witch and magical. His sort were usually too blinkered by science and logic to rise above it.

The host coughed, drawing both their attentions. “Miss Granger, are you agreeable to an extra round with Mr Holmes?”

Hermione smiled demurely though her eyes were anything but. They challenged Sherlock Holmes as she answered the host, “I have no issues with an extra round.”

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

 

Sherlock Holmes was not a pub crawler. Pub crawling was more of a John Watson thing. But here he was… pub crawling… sort of… trying to be ‘social’ after his four-minute return from exile and solving the faux Moriarty case. Faking one’s presence on electronic media was much easier than faking one’s death and autopsy if one had the correct technical skills and equipment. Like that second-string lieutenant trying to capitalize on Moriarty’s mystique. John had insisted on a night out drinking after solving that case and being discreetly pardoned for his efforts.

 

~ooO Begin Flashback ~o~

_“John, I will concede to the occasional drink but I see no reason why I have to endure these… trivia nights.” Sherlock stated with a grimace. “Facile games that require no real thinking are not my idea of entertainment.”_

_“Sherlock, I’m not asking you to play. That would totally destroy everyone’s enjoyment. But there’s no reason why you can’t watch.” John’s expression turned sly. “Trivia nights can get fiercely competitive with a lot of cheating. I’m sure you will be plenty entertained by deducing who is cheating and how. The pub owners would appreciate it if you let them know quietly. Perhaps they’ll even pick up our tab for your services!”_

_“I doubt it but if you insist I will accompany you and Gavin.”_

_“That’s Greg!” DI Lestrade corrected the younger man as he made his way to the bar and placed his order. “Two lagers and a scotch for the curly-haired chap.”_

~o~ End Flashback Ooo~

 

As John had predicted, Sherlock spotted several cheaters and pointed them out to the pub owners. They didn’t offer to pick up their entire tab but offered to write off fifty pounds. That allowed John and Greg to indulge more than their financial budgets would usually permit.

It was also the first night he had seen Her.

Months later, if one asked Sherlock Holmes, what had first caught his attention, he would promptly answer ‘Her voice’. Clear, polished, slightly husky, composed and confident. There was absolutely no doubt in her responses. And she was right each and every single time, no matter how obscure or specialized the subject matter. Some of the questions even went over Sherlock’s head because they were about topics he considered irrelevant: astronomy, popular fiction, modern art. And unlike the other contestants, she was playing in a team of one and not distracted by the audience or her fellow contestants. She was utterly focused on the host, breaking only to sip from a glass of iced water. No liquor. She was definitely in it for the money, not the liquor. Given how she was checking her wristwatch, she was not going to stay and drink even if she won the pot, a two-hundred pound drinking tab.

Curious he paid closer attention and found himself thrown off. She was not easy to deduce. And even then he was not certain of the deductions made. Some of her character traits were odd, old-fashioned and things Sherlock had rarely seen in someone her age. Like her navy-blue calf-length heavy, layered skirt and the old-fashioned high collared blouse made of sheer cream georgette and lace. She wore black low-heeled calf-high boots that vanished under the edge of her skirt. A sand-coloured leather book bag rested against a table leg near her foot. She wore no make-up, only a light dusting of powder and peach gloss. Her curly brown hair was twisted up into an old-fashioned Edwardian pompadour secured by Japanese-style kanzashi. And there was a charcoal grey cloak thrown over the back of her chair! A cloak, not a coat.

Intrigued he began investigating. It had not been difficult to find out her name. She was a regular pub trivia night player and winner but not a drinker. Hermione Granger.

 

~ooO Begin Flashback ~o~

_“Sometimes she does stay for a drink and chat, especially when her uni friends are here.”_

_His well-lubricated source was not difficult to deduce; administrative office worker in her sixties with two cats and a grandchild, granddaughter._

_“Oh?”_

_“They’re a nice bunch. Not really uni students but they attend the lecture series offered to alumni and the public. Hermione is particularly fond of theoretical physics.”_

_“Does she work in a research lab?” Sherlock asked casually._

_“Research yes, lab no. Her boss has her doing all the paperwork, not experiments. She doesn’t like it.”_

_“Definitely not,” another middle-aged woman chimed in. “She wants to research what interests her, not the department. Said they were too conservative to venture into uncharted waters, to rock the boat.”_

_The first woman snorted. “If someone didn’t rock the boat and take a leap of faith then where would we be? Living like peasants in thatch-covered houses, that’s what.”_

_Quite insightful and accurate._

_“Well, I for one hope the poor girl gets the chance to get out and work for herself.”_

_Unlikely. Unless she is independently wealthy. Then something struck him._

_“You mentioned she is a regular for pub trivia nights.”_

_“Oh yes. Usually she wins the big pot. Sometimes second place.”_

_“She doesn’t keep the prizes though. Most of the time she sells them. Says having more than one camera, music player and cellphone is silly. And isn’t interested in drinking herself sick every weekend. But she’s quite fond of trivia nights.”_

_“Edna mentioned that she saw Hermione play in Leeds, in the Fox and Crown.”_

_“Barbara said she saw Hermione in Edinburgh. Don’t know if she played there.”_

_“She went to boarding school in Scotland. She was probably visiting her old teachers.”_

~o~ End Flashback Ooo~

 

With that information it wasn’t hard for Sherlock to do a bit of research, make a few phone calls, hack a few databases, and find out that for the past year Hermione had been a regular player in almost every pub with a respectable prize-pot — even those outside London. And even more interesting she was maintaining an almost impossible schedule, playing a game in Leeds Sunday evening and then another came in Edinburgh Tuesday night. How was she managing it and a regular nine-to-five job?

John Watson scowled at his best friend who was carefully filling out five whiteboards, each labelled with a different city’s name. Across the top were the names of pubs in each of the cities, down the side were a list of date/times with an X under a pub name.

“Sherlock, stop it! Hermione Granger’s not a criminal!”

“I am not saying she is,” Sherlock spoke impatiently, his focus on the white boards before him. It helped to display all the evidence visually. “But she has been keeping an impossible schedule John.” He turned to his best friend. “Look, I’ve tracked every pub trivia game she had participated in, the cities she played in, mapped the cost, distance and travel time required to go there and back from London. Even if she won every pot and sold the prize, she would be just breaking even with rail ticket expense. And she would be exhausted from all the travelling!”

“I don’t know Sherlock. Maybe she got a discount on an unlimited rail pass. Maybe she sleeps on the train back to London and goes straight to work. Maybe she likes the thrill of winning pub trivia games and not the actual prize.”

Sherlock frowned, not appreciating anything that was derailing his chain of thought. “John, it still does not explain how she travelled from Leeds to London in thirty minutes.”

“Maybe you made a mistake.”

“I Do Not make mistakes.”

“Of course you do. If you got the info from a local paper or blog maybe it was a typo.”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. “John, I watched the security tapes. They were time stamped. She was in one city at eight-twenty-eight and in another at nine-fifteen.”

John Watson rubbed his face and wished he could somehow restrain his best friend. “Listen Sherlock. You dragged me all across London interviewing bartenders and wait-staff and regular pub-goers. They all say the same thing… She’s bright, smart, sharp, very insightful in a polite way, in short a nicer you. She doesn’t do the cutting deductive thing in public unless she wants to warn by-standers of someone who is Not Good.”

Sherlock frowned. “But she is breaking the laws of physics!”

“So you say Sherlock. But unless I see it with my own two eyes I won’t believe it. I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation. You just don’t have all the facts.”

That was a valid possibility. And Sherlock had exhausted his usual resources. Then next thing would be to interview the person directly involved… Miss Granger herself. Unfortunately her address was unlisted. Truly unlisted and unavailable unless Sherlock was willing to use a favour to get it from Mycroft, which he was not.

“You know Sherlock, if I knew you were going to go paranoid over a pub trivia night contestant I would not have taken you with me.”

Sherlock smiled broadly. Perhaps he did not have to involve Mycroft after all.

“John, when is the next trivia night at the Lion and Crown?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“John, if you don’t tell me I’ll go online and find out myself.”

“It’s next week Wednesday.”

Sherlock turned towards his laptop and began researching the types of questions generally asked in pub trivia nights. It would not do to be unprepared for his current case! Sherlock wasn’t planning on participating in the game himself but it could become necessary to get close to his target.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

 

On the Wednesday in question, John Watson reluctantly accompanied Sherlock Holmes to the Lion and Crown. Mary Watson had decided to accompany her husband, to ‘put a break on any Sherlock fits’ as she described it.

Sherlock spent forty minutes deducing the pub goers, scanning the crowds for one particular individual. He finally caught sight of her ten minutes before the trivia night was due to start.

She was smiling at the host as she handed her pre-filled contestant card and five pound participant fee. Then she wandered into the private party room that was set up for trivia night. She knew many of the other occupants — regular trivia night participants. Most of them greeted her cheerfully, a few with carefully veiled malice. From her expression she clearly was not concerned about unspoken threats. Unlike the rest she requested a jug of iced water. She poured herself a cup while she listened to the host go over the rules and prizes, her expression calm and unconcerned.

She was not feeling any pressure. She was confident she would win this. How or why Sherlock was uncertain. Maybe she had played against all the current contestants and was familiar with their strengths and weaknesses. Maybe she had prepared, reviewed and tested herself. Sherlock was curious to know. How she could be so supremely certain in something that had an element of chance?

So he watched and understood why.

She was certain because she was that good. Her knowledge base was broad and all encompassing. She was equally good at biology, chemistry, physics, maths as she was in history, arts, literature, culture. Questions about obscure, almost irrelevant factoids did not throw her. Questions about cutting edge hard sciences did not phase her. Questions requiring fairly complex mental computations were answered just as easily as those involving conjuring Greek verbs and doing Russian translations. Her IQ had to be in the genius range. She was probably using a technique similar to his Mind Palace to organize and retrieve such a wide variety of information.

With each question answered, each round completed and tallied, the number of contestants remaining dwindled. They were showing signs of stress — flushed skin, perspiration, damp underarms, tense muscles — but Hermione Granger looked just like she had at the start — relaxed and composed, sipping iced water and chatting with a few acquaintances in the audience.

He suddenly realized he did not want to wait until she won the game. She had a tendency to vanish right after she won or dropped out — Sherlock was absolutely certain she was deliberately throwing twenty percent of the games, the ones that she got second place.

“Pardon me but I would like to cut in.”

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

**TBC…**

 


	2. Meeting of Minds 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two very competitive people who are quite interested in each other. Too bad they both have secrets. Or maybe not so bad since they both like uncovering secrets.

It started slow before turning hot, intense… personal. It was a tennis match where only speed could be a tie breaker because both of them knew the correct answers. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth … there was no winner. It was clear neither of them would concede and accept defeat so the host kept on going.

 

~ooOoo~

 

It was getting quite late. Many of the audience had drifted off to socialize and drink, or return to their homes. The only ones watching were the staff who were clearing up and a few die-hard Sherlock Holmes fans. The host was looking harassed and annoyed before he finally threw his hands up in the air.

“Look! I’ve run out of questions. Let’s just call it a draw. Mr Holmes, you asked for a challenge and Miss Granger has definitely challenged you. You got what you asked for.”

Sherlock Holmes frowned and turned to his opponent who was sipping a glass of ginger ale with a composed expression. “Draw?”

“Draw,” she agreed.

They stood up simultaneously and stepped around the table edge to begin walking towards the primary exit. Sherlock frowned faintly as he watched her wrap her shawl over her shoulders. She was going to leave and he realized that he wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. There was still so much he did not know about her. Every time he deducted something he had second thoughts about his conclusions. There was something about her, something he was missing…

“Drink? On me, of course.” He added hastily.

She blinked and demurred. “Thank you but no. It’s late and I have work tomorrow.”

“Then can I meet you tomorrow evening?”

She stopped and turned to face him directly. “Why?” she wanted to know.

“I’ve never met anyone like me. With my mind.”

She looked amused. “My mind is my own mind. Yours is yours.”

“But you think differently from everyone else. You remember precisely. You See.”

“How do you know that?”

He floundered, trying put his impressions into words. “You did more than a surface scan of my physique. You analyzed and deduced me. But you have not said anything because you are polite and prefer to follow social norms.”

“How do you know I’ve made the right deductions?” she asked casually. “Maybe every conclusion I’ve come to is wrong.”

“Tell me.”

She sighed and rearranged her shawl around her shoulders. “You are bored. You don’t like being bored because you’ll fall into past bad habits, substance abuse? How can I tell? Your fingertips and nails are yellowed, nicotine stains. It would not be a surprise if you’ve been addicted to other substances.” He was very still and distant but she was not put off. “But not for usual reasons. You need to fill in the void, to occupy your thoughts. Meditation doesn’t work for a constantly consciously working mind. Drugs can slow the thought processes and creates a false serenity. Reality is mostly unbearable because you never have enough information to find the answers. The closest to perfection is unravelling mysteries and solving puzzles. You’ve used your eidetic memory and guided imagery to create a mental construct that cross references hard science facts with reality factoids. It’s unmistakable, the momentary blankness when you are accessing the archived data.

“This form of mental organization occupies your thoughts but it has become increasingly complex as you matured. You simultaneously dread and welcome growing old, reaching a plateau, because it will reduce the upper limits of your mental active state. You cannot tolerate explaining anything because it requires you to lower yourself, to simplify the beauty of what you envision and surmise to mere words. It’s why you refuse to work a typical nine-to-five job. You do something that allows you to exercise your intellect and deductive skills. A private investigator? A detective? Of hard serious crimes only — no cheating husbands and lost pets. Not a police officer because it would restrict your options. But you would need an in, a contact with the police force — perhaps the forensics team that collects evidence?” Her eyes narrowed catching his distaste. “No, you hate the police forensics team. Someone else then, from the morgue used by your primary contact? A pathologist? Yes, that makes more sense.”

“You could have easily gathered that information from the tabloids and John’s blog.”

She blinked looking confused. “Perhaps. If I had heard of you before tonight. And I don’t know who John is.”

Then it actually hit him… She was being truthful. She had never heard of Sherlock Holmes. She did not know him.

“How have you not heard of me? The newspapers were relentless in smearing my reputation a few years back.”

She made a face. “I’ve been out of touch, mostly isolated for several years. Studying, then research. I tried to stay up to date but mostly with serious news or academic magazines, nothing about crime because it just depresses me or celebrity scandals because it irritates me.”

“And now?”

“I still avoid reading anything to do with crime and celebs in the papers.”

He inhaled sharply. “As you know my name is Sherlock Holmes. I would suggest you Google it after you go home.”

“Is this a warning?”

He grinned, a flash of teeth. “Of sorts. You intrigue me Miss Granger. Very few do so. I find myself reluctant to say good night and never see you again.”

She blinked, clearly surprised by the up-front confession. “You know a normal man would ask for my phone number, or ask me out for dinner.”

His eyes widened. “And have you deduced me to be a normal man?”

She took him in from head to toe with wide-eyes and a faux-thoughtful expression. “The answer to that is a negative. So how about this… I go home and research you. If I’m interested I’ll contact you. If you are well-known you probably have a website or blog a with your contact information.”

“And if you are not interested or do not contact me?” he asked.

She grinned. “I’m sure you can hunt me down and stir up my interest Mr Holmes.”

 

~ooOoo~

 

Hermione had not expected to go up against a real challenge when she had agreed to the extra round. Perhaps she should have been more circumspect when everyone else had politely declined but hung around to watch, clearly anticipating a spectacle. She had not intended to provide one but ended up doing so.

She never expected to find herself engaged in a battle of wits with a very attractive gentleman whose mannerisms and voice resembled a human computer. There had been several moments where she wanted to cast a minor wandless spell on him, just to see if he would short out. She didn’t of course. Hermione was not the type to blame her opponents if they were besting her — she was no Draco Malfoy. Instead she had dug in and focused. It became a matter of pride. It didn’t matter how attractive she found him, how her desire would ratchet a notch higher every time he answered an obscure question correctly, when he manipulated the long fingers of his large hands with their faintly scarred, callused fingertips over a glass of mineral water.

Hermione had a bit of a kink… she was attracted to intelligent men. Ron was something she had been pressured into by social expectations but deep down inside she preferred having partners capable of intellectual conversation. A good debate got her blood flowing and afterwards — whether she won or lost — she always wanted a hot snog and make-out session. She never got that as a student in Hogwarts. She did experience it with a fellow student during her Arithmancy Apprenticeship. Sometimes she wondered where she would have gone if she had accepted Etienne’s proposal and stayed in Rome. Then she would remember Etienne was a very traditionalist wizard, especially when it came to marriage and family. Most wizards were. Hermione was a modern girl and would not tolerate being bound to obey and submit in a relationship. At least not to one who was not intelligent or strong enough to satisfy her deep seated instincts.

This Muggle was setting off all those primal feminine instincts. Her gut was screaming he was It. He was Perfect. He was Hers. She had never felt like this before. Hermione was seriously tempted to run back to her flat and Floo Ginny, to ask if Ginny had experienced something like this herself. A fractional second later Hermione decided it was too new and fragile to risk being torn apart by analysis. Besides it was always possible that Mr Sherlock Holmes was not experiencing comparable feelings towards her; he was not interested in initiating a relationship. All those thoughts fell to the wayside after the trivia night host declared a draw and He started a conversation with her.

_You intrigue me Miss Granger. Very few do so. I find myself reluctant to say good night and never see you again._

Hermione never had the opportunity to indulge in a flirtation before and found herself playing coy, not giving him her phone number before walking out into the cool night air, declining the offer of an escort or cab. At the first opportunity she ducked into a shadowed stairwell and Apparated. To the casual watcher it looked like she had entered the building.

Once she was in her flat she stripped and slipped into her flannel jammies before booting up her laptop. Sherlock Holmes seemed to be well-known so she wasn’t too surprised by the numerous hits generated by the search engine. She was smugly pleased to find out she was right, he was an investigator/detective of sorts… a genius consulting detective who worked with New Scotland Yard to solve atypical crimes. His colleague, Doctor John Watson, maintained a most intriguing blog describing the cases solved. Sherlock himself had a rather dry but very detailed website about the ‘Science of Deduction’ and his scientific research. Imagine cataloguing 243 types of cigarette ash! But then again she had done similar research, creating arrays with minor variations to see which had the best effect, cataloguing how the different variations affected the whole.

Hermione leaned back in her chair to consider the situation and her options.

If she tried to form a relationship with Sherlock Holmes he Would notice Something and eventually deduce she was not a normal woman. She was not that good an actress. And from past experience Hermione knew logical, scientific-minded individuals did not cope well with dramatic paradigm shifts. They usually experience nervous breakdowns when confronted by the reality of magic and ended up being Obliviated to undo the mental damage. Hermione wasn’t too sure how well memory modification spells would work on the Muggle version of an Occlumancy Master and she did not want to find out. Sherlock Holmes had a brilliant and fascinating mind and she did not want to risk it being damaged for her own selfish desires. It would be best to put him off somehow, to reduce his interest in her.

She chewed on her lower lip as she composed a polite e-mail inviting him to a late tea / early supper in a cafe near St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Less than two minutes later she received a response asking her to meet him at Angelo’s instead. She debated for ten seconds before replying with an affirmative answer. Too bad she had to be more focused on making a bad impression and putting him off than ensnaring his interest.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

 

It was not in Hermione’s nature to be discourteous so she arrived ten minutes early.

“I have a meeting with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Of course! Sherlock mentioned a young woman would be joining him today. Please follow me.”

The host was unusually cheery and personally involved. Was he a friend? What had Sherlock Holmes told him? Hermione wondered as she followed the older gentleman to a private recessed nook near the back. It was almost hidden from the general view of most of the tables.

“Sherlock will be here soon. But until then can I get you anything to drink?”

“Rosehip tea please.” Hermione murmured as she accepted the menu and scanned the culinary offerings.

“Miss Granger.”

She looked up from the menu to meet penetrating green-blue eyes.

“Mr Holmes.”

He sat down without any further greeting. Instead he rattled off his order.

“Turkey club sandwich with coffee, black, two sugars.”

Hermione resisted the urge to smile before giving her own order. “BLT on rye bread with a fresh pot of rosehip tea please.”

By unspoken consensus they waited until their meals were delivered and they had each consumed half their sandwiches before speaking. Well, before Sherlock began deducing.

“Historical re-enactors do not have ink stains like you do. You use quills on a regular basis, in your daily routine. But you do not have the expected ink stains in the crevices of your nail-beds or under your fingernails. No amount of soap can remove such ink stains. But I have encountered a group of individuals who could remove inkstains effortlessly. In fact, to be more accurate, magically.”

Hermione went very still. “Oh? Do tell.”

“You are a newcomer to the trivia pub circuit but a fairly regular player and winner. I was curious to do some investigating and found out you are a regular player in pubs in and outside of London.”

“And is that a crime?”

“No. But it is odd. How you can play and win one game in Leeds one night and start another game in London less than thirty minutes later. It is impossible to travel between two cities that quickly. Unless you are magical.”

Hermione forced herself to remain relaxed. “Please, Mr Holmes! You should know that is impossible. You must be mistaken. Like you said, it is impossible to travel between Leeds and London in less than thirty minutes.”

“Unless you teleport. What do you magic-users call it… Apparate?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to his face, her calm evaporating to leave unhesitant determination. How did Sherlock Holmes find out about magic? And why did he still remember? Then her own theories about an organized Muggle mind being able to resist Obliviate spells…

He cocked his head to one side. “You are not trying to deny it,” he noted.

“Would you give it any credence?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“You still have not admitted that you are a witch. A wand-user.” He gave her a critical look. “A rather atypical one I must confess.”

“Oh? Met many witches, have you?”

“From a distance, quite a few,” Sherlock Holmes admitted seriously. “I never would have thought you were one if I had not mapped and analysed your trivia game wins. You were a bit careless for two games; not allowing for the time it would take to either drive or travel by train.”

“I hadn’t thought anyone would care to look so closely into my activities,” she admitted. “My non-magical friends know my work is confidential and I travel a lot. I contact them when I’m free and in town.”

“You do not have friends with magic?

“Plenty. Mostly from school and work. But what interests me doesn’t interest them.”

“Oh?”

“I like science and logic Mr Holmes. Witches and wizards are among the most illogical creatures in existence. I am an oddity and I don’t quite fit in.”

“I understand the feeling. I am an oddity myself. But I have come to realize I prefer being an oddity than normal,” he added with a slight curl to his lip. “Being normal is overrated.”

Hermione laughed and sipped her rosehip tea before responding. “You know, I’ve come to that same conclusion myself. That’s why I prefer to socialize in the non-magical world. Here I can find people who know about quantum physics and string theory, and even meet a few who like to discuss the topic — even if it’s in an internet chat room.”

His expression was faintly admiring.

“That is quite impressive of you, taking a stand apart from the norm. Most of the magicals who I met… they are clumsy oafs with no discretion. They depend on memory modification to hide their mistakes and clumsy activities. It does not work on me,” he added proudly.

Hermione sighed and took a bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed before answering. “I thought so. Memory modifications don’t work well against an organized and detail-oriented mind.”

He smirked. “The first time it happened I was a bit confused for a few hours until I had the chance to go into my Mind Palace to review and catalogue my memories. It was not hard to locate the obscured memories. After that I always paid extra attention to identify and avoid magic users. And it was quite easy — until you.”

Hermione gave him a hard look. She found it hard to believe the consultant detective she had read of would have given up so easily. He gave in after ten seconds.

“Alright. I tried to find a witch or wizard who would talk to me but my contact in the government insisted I cease and desist. He pointed out if the Ministry of Magic knew that I knew they would take more permanent measures to silence me. To keep me from teaching my methods to others and exposing the truth.”

Hermione sighed and nodded. “Your contact was very wise to warn you. And trust me, the Ministry of Magic would have done just that. Or worse, they could have detained you to try and find out exactly how you are resistant to memory modification spells.”

He frowned and nodded slowly. “The thought had occurred to me.” Then he perked up. “You mentioned you thought memory modification would not work on me. Do you have a theory?”

“As a matter of fact yes.” Hermione took another bite and chewed slowly to organize her thoughts. By the time she finished swallowing she was ready. “Your techniques, organizing and cataloguing your thoughts sounds like Occlumency, a magical discipline that defends the mind against mental attacks. Legilimency is its opposite, infiltrating another mind.”

“Interesting. Can you teach me?”

“It’s a magical discipline and you do not have magic Mr Holmes.”

“Am I correct in assuming that you know Occlumency and Legilimency?”

“As a matter of fact I do. I’m one of nine living Mind Arts Masters in Britain.”

“Is there a reason such a useful skill is so rare? I would think being able to keep secrets and steal them from enemies would be quite in demand.”

“It is. But most do not have the power, discipline, and focus to master both. They choose the one aspect that matters more to them. Usually Occlumency for keeping secrets. There are other techniques for prying secrets out.”

“How do you organize your memories?”

“I use my old school as my mindscape.”

He wrinkled his nose looking quite baffled. “Your school?!?”

“It’s an enormous old castle with towers and wings and dungeons and hidden rooms and secret passages. It’s flexible and grows and changes; a Muggle —a non-magical— building does not.”

He looked quite intrigued. “Is it possible for me to see it. In your mind?”

Hermione found herself torn between pleasure and self-irritation. She had planned on dissuading Sherlock Holmes. Instead she had engaged his interest even more strongly.

“Mr Holmes—”

“Sherlock.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sherlock. I have a feeling we are going to get to know each other quite well so we should be on a first-name basis.”

“Mr Holmes—”

“Sherlock.”

Hermione pressed her lips together before conceding. “Sherlock. I’m sorry but I’m already breaking the law by talking to you about magic.”

“But you did not tell me about magic. I already knew about it,” he pressed.

“True.”

“And I have not gone around publicly proclaiming that magic is real and it exists.” He added persuasively. “I simply want to know. For my own interests.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“Can you try to read my mind?” Sherlock asked eagerly. “I would like to know if I can detect and resist mental intrusion.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s illegal to use magic on a Muggle.”

Sherlock scoffed and gave her a disbelieving look. “I find it hard to believe that that particular law has been strongly abided by. And your own government breaks it by modifying memories of those who find out. Besides I am giving my consent. I want to know if I can resist being mind read.”

“It can be rather…invasive,” Hermione warned. “I may see and find out things you do not want me to know.”

His expression turned serious. “I know. But something tells me you are good at keeping secrets…your own and others.”

With those blunt words Hermione found her resistance collapsing.

“You are a very odd man.”

“That is nothing new. Most people call me a freak.”

Hermione made a face. “Please do not call yourself a freak.”

“I do not. Other people do.”

She inhaled deeply and exhaled sharply before speaking. “You are odd. Most people run away screaming when they find out I’m a witch who can read their thoughts, modify their memories and control their actions.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose controlling actions would be a logical extension of modifying memories and reading thoughts. We can start with seeing if you can read my thoughts before experimenting with controlling my actions.”

Hermione could not stop herself from gaping. “You must be joking.”

“I do not joke. Not when it comes to experiments and research.”

She stared at him and could see he was quite serious. It left her torn between shock and laughter; laughter won out. “Very well Sherlock. I’m willing to participate in your experiments. But only in a warded area.”

“A warded area?”

“The Ministry can detect magical energies, spells and such. When they detect such energies outside a licensed magical household or the enclaves they send law enforcement officers to make sure the Statute of Secrecy has not been broken.”

“Hmmm. I don’t suppose you would be willing to invite me to your home.”

She gave him a sharp look. “No.”

“Then do you know of any warded places that we can use?”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

“Oh?”

“Any private residence you specify. Preferably one you control mundane access to. I can set up temporary wards that will prevent the Ministry from detecting magic being cast behind the wards.”

“Then may I offer my flat for our experiment? 221B Baker Street.”

“I will take you up on that offer. After I finish my tea and sandwiches.”

“You do not feel the urge to skip meals in favour of experiments?”

“I do but I’ve found out the hard way that spell casting is done best after a good meal. Besides I have nothing else to do tonight. If you have plans we can choose an alternate day.”

“No! I have no plans. I am merely… impatient.”

 

~ooOoo~

 

It did not take Hermione Granger long to collect the necessary paraphernalia and make her way to 221B Baker Street. It was oddly quiet for townhouse that was divided into separate units. Sherlock had to personally let her in and show her up to his flat. He watched as she removed her low-heeled gray suede boots and set them on the boot-tray next to the door before stepping inside.

“There is no one else in at the moment. My landlady, Mrs Hudson, is visiting her sister. My old flatmate moved out when he married and I haven’t found a replacement. The basement unit is too damp to be inhabitable.”

She looked around the small living room and opened her sand-coloured leather book bag to remove a fist-size dark brown bottle before setting it on John’s chair. Then she walked around the perimeter of the room, pouring tiny white crystals from the bottle that held much more crystals than it should for something its size. She finished encasing the room in a rough ‘circle’.

“Salt,” she explained seeing his curious look. “It’s the standard component for a temporary circle. “I’ll use silk thread and haematite to reinforce it.”

He watched as she did just that. She removed a spool of red silk thread from her bag and then began unwinding it, dropping it behind her and following the salt path until she came back to her starting point where she broke the thread from her spool and knotted the two ends together, so it formed a complete circle. Then she went around a third time, this time removing small chunks of grey-black roughly polished haematite from her bag and setting them at roughly intervals of six inches.

It was the first time he received an explanation for the magic he observed. Most of the other times the caster never knew Sherlock was watching. Part of his mind was focused on cataloguing his observations and maintaining a mental commentary of speculations. Scientifically there was nothing special about salt and silk and haematite but Hermione Granger seemed quite certain it would block magic from being detected. And she was the magical expert.

“Come on,” she urged, waving him over.

Sherlock moved from the kitchen and dining area, stepping over the circle of salt and silk thread and haematite chunks. He followed her motioned directions to sit down on his usual chair, settle his elbows on the armrests and angling his forearms so his fingertips were touching in front of his mouth — his usual thinking position.

He watched with wide eyes as she levitated the coffee table off to the side and floated John’s chair over so it was directly across from his own with less than two feet of space in-between. She lifted her book bag and set it on the coffee table. Then she sat down, leaning slightly forward with her elbows on her knees, hands dangling before her.

“Are you sure about this?” She asked. “It is disconcerting and an invasion of privacy.”

“You sound like you don’t want to do this.”

“I don’t. It usually exposes unwanted truths and buried secrets,” she admitted freely.

“I have secrets,” he admitted slowly. “But my observations indicate I can trust you.”

She sighed and then leaned back and inhaled deeply. “Very well.” She leaned forward and caught his eye, staring straight at him. Her irises were hazel brown flecked with lighter shades and gold. It was almost hypnotic.

“Legilimens.”

And then he was falling backwards into white.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

**TBC…**  

 


	3. Meeting of Minds 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic is not necessary for a true meeting of mind, heart and body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic sexual description, BDSM elements

When she fell into his mind he had not expected the absolute lack of resistance to her presence. Deep down he did not want to hide from her. He felt oddly exposed but he wanted her to know him and know her in turn.

Both could see brief flashes — glimpses into each others pasts, lives, minds — as she fell past walls and doorways in his Mind Palace…

_~o~_

> _He wanted to know more, why, how, all on his own terms, by experimenting and observing the results with his own senses. He was not willing to listen to the so-called older-and-wiser teachers. They were not as smart as he was._
> 
> _She believed she could find her answers in books. She was not completely right of course but books were her source of comfort in her lonely childhood. They would never taunt or make fun of her._

_~o~_

> _He gave up on finding friends, fitting in, at a very young age. Because Mycroft told him ‘caring is not an advantage’ and Sherlock had believed his elder, more experienced brother. Mycroft was brutally honest back then. He began lying after he went to uni. John was the first conscious exception that made him re-examine and re-label his inner circle — Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Billy Wiggins, even Mycroft._
> 
> _Her parents encouraged her to keep on trying, to keep on believing. And eventually she did make two friends. They were not at her intellectual level but they were good childhood friends. One remained so into adulthood. She was supposed to catch up with him, his wife and children this Saturday._

_~o~_

> _A drug addicted Sherlock saw something he should not have seen, something he could not forget, did not want to delete, an incentive to clean up and investigate deeper. Mycroft warned him not to look deeper because ‘Magicals have no respect for non-magicals. They casually violate our free will and minds because they are too careless to take sensible precautions.’_
> 
> _A eleven-year-old Hermione being told about magic by her future teacher. The enormous relief she had felt when Minerva McGonagall explained **why** Hermione was different, why odd things kept happening around her. Hoping she would find friends in this strange new world. Being disappointed until she was nearly killed by a troll and rescued by two boys who became very important to her teenage self. She was still close to one of them, had dated and parted on harsh terms with the other._

_~o~_

> _Sherlock formed his disdain of law-and-order, of authority, of the police, from a very young age. How could he respect people who lied blatantly and so badly? People who were so incompetent at their jobs that they never should have been promoted. People who refused to even listen to him when he tried to tell them what they weren’t seeing. Those who let the truly guilty escape without punishment. Who refused to listen and give proper weight to his words. Not until Victor Trevor, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper, John Watson._
> 
> _Hermione learnt the hard way about the flaws of having absolute trust in authority. No one she knew could be trusted in a truly intimate basis — police, government, acquaintances, teachers, allies, or friends. Oh, she could depend on them following her orders —because they knew if they messed up Hermione Granger would come down on them like a Fury— and coming to her for help —because Hermione Granger would find a solution to their problems— and asking her to attend their parties —because having Hermione Granger attend held cachet— but she could not trust them to watch her back —she was the tolerated outsider— to place her above everyone else —Harry always chose Ron and Ron chose his family— to share her interests and views —slavery, prejudice, nepotism, coddling incompetence, intellectual hobbling was intolerable. Hermione yearned for the uncomplicated friendships of her teenage years; two boys who rescued her from a troll, who fought beside her in a war. Now they had other priorities and loyalties. The only one she could depend on was herself._

_~o~_

> _He fought anything that sought to tie him down, restrict his options, control his actions. He did not want to follow rules or be beholden to anyone. That did not change until he was much older and surrounded by people he valued, people he trusted, people he was tied to. As much as Sherlock protested he loved. He would not have risked his life and sanity if he did not care so deeply for John Watson, and he was a friend, a battle-brother who loved and accepted Sherlock as he was, even when John tried to cajole Sherlock into being polite and more social._
> 
> _She searched for someone, anyone, who would understand her, who was like her, different, unafraid of what was different. She found the first ones in her first year of magical schooling and they fluctuated throughout her teenage years. After she matured and began changing those ties began fading into a comfortable friendship, no longer holding the absolute loyalty of teenagers in the midst of war. She was still looking for that special someone, someone she felt she could trust/respect/love/protect without restraint, because that was the only way Hermione Granger knew how to love._

_~o~_

> _His shock at being herded by Moriarty, having no real option to protect those he cared for; his salvation coming from Molly Hooper who Saw and helped fake his death. Willingly choosing to kill Magnussen and accepting consequences — exile and death in six months — to protect Mary and John’s unborn daughter and John’s happiness . His internal fears because Mycroft was never wrong. The unexpected salvation coming in the form of the Moriarty resurrection. It was eventually proven to be a hoax executed by a missed underling. It persuaded the VIPs in the British Government that having him around was to their benefit. And Magnussen had it coming due to his past criminal actions. Sherlock had merely taken action when they failed to do so._
> 
> _Her sorrow as she took the difficult step of wiping her parents memories and sending them away, to Australia, away from danger. Her relief when she read the news articles describing the gas explosions that destroyed her parents former dental practice and her childhood home. Accepting their unforgiving anger and disownment as rightful punishment for modifying their memories and sending them away, to safety. Subsuming herself in the rebuilding efforts of the recent blood war. There is still so much prejudice; she is still fighting and she’s tired, so tired._

_~o~_

> _He is seeking the edges, testing his limits, chasing after higher highs. But now he has a circle of those he loves and trusts; people he will fight and kill to protect._
> 
> _She is seeking stability and familiarity, safety and something to call hers. Even when her world was falling apart nothing could shift her core values, her loyalty and devotion._

_~o~_

> _He had known he was different for ages now and he was not bothered by it. He had expected to live alone, to die alone, married to his Work. The friends he had were a mixed blessing with benefits and liabilities, but they were strong and capable individuals. He did not want to be weighted down by an intimate partner who would want him to be careful, to take fewer risks, to come home every night. Of course, this was before Moriarty and Magnussen taught him the value of caution, of having allies and back-up plans, and not dismissing all other views and opinions. Molly Hooper saved Sherlock when his own mind failed him. Even so Sherlock distrusted the emotions evoked by sexual desire. He did not like being out of control, having to change to accommodate and please another._
> 
> _She’s resigned to being single, the crazy-old-cat-lady simply because she is not willing to settle for anything less. She fought too long and too hard for her independence, to allow anyone to dictate how she lived and what she studied. She wanted much more than the mundane normality of a nine-to-five job. She wanted freedom to explore and soar into places avoided by the average. She knows her desires made her an oddity, something feared and avoided; she will never find a partner who will support her in her intellectual endeavours so she buries the longing for a family of her own. Perhaps once she was financially secure she could look into having a child without a partner. It was an option available to non-magical women and Hermione did not care if her child would be magical or not, only that he or she was healthy._

_~o~_

A door opened and she tumbled through and fell onto soft green grass. They were no longer surrounded by narrow walls but under a warm summer sun. She was in the Heart of his Mind Palace, the expansive gardens of his childhood home where he had spent hours playing pirates with Redbeard — something he had not expected. It did not make sense, for her to appear past all his defenses without even navigating through his Mind Palace. How did she know how to get here so quickly?

“I don’t know.” He stared at her. “Yes, I can hear whatever you’re thinking right now.” She looked around the meadow-style garden bordered by fences covered with raspberry and blackberry bushes.

She looked like a nymph, haloed by the warm summer sun, her thin white dress sheer enough to outline her slim form. Her feet were bare, toes buried in the soft grass and low ground cover.

“I’m not a nymph. They are bound to an element and much shorter than a human being.”

He could not help scanning her, taking in every inch of her. She was clearly nude beneath the tunic-style dress, her nipples defined beneath the fabric, the folds draping over her curves and legs, an intriguing shadow between her legs. Her hair falling in large defined spirals over her shoulders and down her back, very much like his own curls. He wondered how they would feel if he sank his fingers into them, twisted her tresses around his hand to use as leverage…

Without conscious thought he found himself standing beside her. She was much shorter than him, her head could easily fit under his chin if he moved a fraction closer. He wasn’t interested in a simple embrace. He lifted his left hand towards her head.

Her hair was just as soft as he imagined, the curls entwining around his digits with a life of their own, almost ensnaring him of their own will. He could not resist. He clenched his hand around the soft mass and tugged her towards him. She gasped and followed his unvoiced direction, moving closer to him, standing on tip-toe when he tugged her hair upwards, her hands on his torso for balance.

Intrigued, he tugged more forcefully, enough to make her tilt her head back to reduce the stinging pain. He studied her reactions. The small pain had a curious effect on her — instead of protesting she made a soft throaty sound, her eyes were dilated, lips slightly swollen. She was aroused.

“You like this.” It was a statement of fact, not opinion.

“Yes.”

Honesty. A rare gift to be treasured. Would she always be honest? Sherlock realized he really wanted to find out.

The self-proclaimed sociopath was not one to indulge his baser desires, not since his uni-days —his time as a drug addict— but now he found himself wanting to indulge, to bring one of his more deeply buried fantasies to life.

“Sit,” he ordered, pulling her hair downwards to ‘encourage’ her to comply. She did not resist, submitting to seat herself on one of the retaining walls forming the garden beds. Being dominated was a fantasy of hers. Something she had never experienced before or dared to experiment in. Was it because of how limited magical society was?

Sherlock sat down beside her, keeping his left hand wrapped in her hair.

“Let’s start off with something simple. I want you to recite all you know about Bernoulli’s Principle and its applications.”

She gave him an incredulous look but seeing his unyielding expression she complied.

Once he was certain she was involved in her recitation he moved his right hand towards her knee. Her breath caught when his fingers slipped lower and under the hem of her light summery dress, pushing it up and baring her knees and thighs.

“Do not stop or I will.” he told her in harsh, uncompromising tones. She nodded vigorously and continued with her recitation.

When she finished he did not give her more than five seconds breather. “Stoke’s Law.”

She smiled faintly and began speaking about the new topic.

…

“London dispersion force.”

…

“Valence Bond Theory.”

…

“Molecular Orbit Theory.”

…

He had her reciting scientific laws and principles, complex formulas, and speculative theories while he caressed her skin, manipulating her dress higher and higher until it was bunched up around her waist. Her only reaction was a slight hitch in her voice though she never stopped. She couldn’t see his smirk when he slipped his fingers over her groin and found her curls damp with her own moisture. Sherlock knew this was just in their minds and was curious to know if her response in this world would match material reality.

~o~

It was hard, concentrating on responding to his queries when all she wanted to do was climb onto his lap and ride his fingers or his cock — she had no real preferences because she just wanted to cum on him. He seemed to take pleasure in touching and exploring her body, taking her to the edge and forcing her over. If he could do this with just his hands and voice Hermione was certain his cock would make her pass out.

It almost hurt, forcing the muscles of her body to be still when all she wanted was to laze around and revel in the sensation of being completely sated and relaxed. Her dream body was reacting like her physical one would — she was almost too swollen and sore from experiencing several climaxes in close succession. If he penetrated her now it would hurt.

Almost in reaction to her thoughts he stopped and removed his fingers from her sopping wet opening. Her scalp tingled pleasurably as he tugged her hair downwards for several seconds, before relaxing the tension and then pulling her hair again. It was almost painful when he brushed the thumb of his other hand over her swollen clit. Not enough stimulation for climax but enough to set her raw nerves afire.

“I’m going to fuck you. Right now. Do you have any issues with that?”

Despite the soreness there was only one answer. “No.”

He tugged her forward, tossing her onto the grass. She fell onto her bum, putting her hands behind her to keep from falling back onto the grass. Deliberately she raised her knees, making her dress fall around her waist, showing enough of the damp curls at the top of her thighs, the wet pink slit between her legs.

It took only seconds for him to lower his trousers enough for his cock to escape the confining material and become fully erect. Reflexively she parted her thighs, baring her wet clenching opening. He followed her onto the grass, kneeling between her parted legs, forcing her thighs apart, knees towards her shoulders. A small trickle of fluid leaked from her opening and down her slit towards the cleft of her arse.

~o~

He did not waste any time, shifting until he was lying on top of her, pelvis aligned together, catching the back of her knees in the crooks of his elbow as he planted his hands on either side of her shoulders on the soft grass. The position left her completely open to him and he liked it. And so did she from her soft moans and tiny wriggles that only rubbed her up against him like wet silk. It was intriguing, the amount of fluid her Skene’s glands were producing. Was it an aspect of this meeting of minds or something her material body was capable of duplicating? He wanted to find out.

It was not easy. Penetrating her. Despite the fluids acting as lubricants, her tissues were swollen, blood-engorged from the stimulation and climaxes. Her vagina was a hot wet vice around his cock, pain and pleasure clashing from the sensations derived. She gasped but made no protest as he sank into her inch by inch until he was almost fully seated. He looked down as the last inch vanished within her body and their groins were pressed against each other, dark hair mingling with light brown.

She looked like she was in pain, the small tremors in her abdominal muscles and thighs but her face was flushed and nipples erect, hard little points visible through the thin material. Something to explore next time. Right now all he wanted was to feel her climax, her hot flesh spasm around his cock.

“You like a bit of pain. You like being ordered by someone capable. You like being held down and forced. Dubious consent,” he murmured as he rolled his pelvis against her. Her flesh was damp, soft and smooth, welcoming.

Her pupils were blown wide, irises a thin pale hazel ring as she looked up at him.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“I don’t want you to think,” he ordered her sharply, even as he undulated against her. “I want you to feel. You will not restrain yourself in any fashion. I want your honest reactions. Your moans,” he smirked as he hit a particular spot making her groan. “Your cries,” a particularly hard thrust wrung just that from her. “Your tears,” he bent his head to lick the mentioned fluids from the corner of one eye. “Base reactions and all,” he rumbled in one ear.

He hissed as she set her hands over his shoulders and dug sharply into his flesh, leaving red crescent marks.

“More.”

She raked her nails down his upper arms leaving welts in the pale smooth flesh.

He rocked harder into her. The mix of pleasure and pain was most intriguing. Something to experiment and test. Would sex in the physical world evoke these same reactions? Could it be more intense?

She shifted her hips minutely, thrusting up to meet his on the down stroke. The angle was enough to set off her climax, the perfect amount of pressure-friction against her Grafenberg spot.

It was enough to trigger his own orgasm. It was odd, the pleasure/pride he felt as he filled her, marked her as his.

It was not real and yet it felt too real.

Pleasure overwhelmed him and he blacked out.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

**TBC…**

 

 


	4. Meeting of Minds 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once a decision is made there is no need to wait. Of course it does cause some consternation in the people around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic sexual intimacy, BDSM elements

Blue-green eyes snapped open. His cock was engorged and pressing against the front of his tailored pants. He was breathing hard, as though he had just chased down a criminal. He was still fully dressed though he wanted to strip off every inch of material and fuck the woman-witch sitting across him.

Her nipples were hard and prominent even through the layers of material, bra and blouse. She was breathing unevenly, her hands trembling though she tried to hide it by gripping her knees. She inhaled deeply before opening her eyes. The pupils were dilated, her lips were red and engorged, her cheeks flushed. She shifted minutely, trying to stifle soft gasps, biting her lower lip to silence herself, to not give away her sexual arousal. He strongly suspected he was giving off similar tells as well.

They stared at each other across the two feet of open space, both stimulated and needy.

He was hard as a rock and desperately wanting to feel her wrapped around his cock, to mark her as his, to fill her with his cum, to force her to submit.

She was drenched and quivering, her muscles clenching around air and desperately needing something hard, thick, solid, penetrating and stretching her.

He spoke first, his voice composed and almost icy.

“You have two choices. You can submit to me completely or you can walk away.”

He waited a full two minutes, watching her remain seated, her hands shifting to her lap, fingers lacing and unlacing, but showing no other sign of nerves.

“Do you want to be mine?”

Her answer was a soft sigh. “Oh yes.” And he knew she was being honest. She longed to belong somewhere as much as he fought to remain free and unconstrained.

“Unbutton your blouse and remove it,” he instructed.

He watched as she stood up and tugged the blouse out of the skirt waistband before unbuttoning the pearl buttons at the cuffs, then down the front, and shrugging the garment off. It fell onto the seat she had just vacated. Her black cotton-and-lace bra had a front-closure. When she went to open it he stopped her with a sharp “No. Keep it on.”

Her hands went to the side, to unhook and unzip the skirt. She bit her lip and allowed the material to fall in a pool around her ankles. She stepped out of the pool and used one foot to push it off to the side.

The only things she had on were her bra, black cotton bikini knickers, and black knee-high socks. He stood up and moved, gripping her shoulder and turning her around to face the sofa she had been sitting on. She made a soft sound as he guided her to kneel on the padded seat and place her hands on the top of the sofa backrest.

“Do not remove them,” he ordered and knew she would obey from her sharp inhale and slow exhale. Her hands shifted on the leather but she did not lift them away.

~o~

It took an effort to not turn around and reach out, to obey his instructions. It was hard and fulfilling because it took conscious effort to obey. She had been wet before but now she was certain she was drenched. She could smell her own fluids and knew he could too. How would it take for her juices to start leaking through her knickers?

She started slightly when he reached around to her front. Large hands caressed her face down to her knee, skimming over her temples, cheeks, dipping between her lips, over her chin and throat, down her torso, lingering over her breasts and stomach, down her thighs before returning up to cup her groin over her knickers.

“You are mine.”

His voice was calm, matter of fact, almost bored; in complete contrast with his actions. The fingers of one hand were sliding under the elastic straps and combing through the thatch of hair covering her groin. Was it okay? Or did he prefer women who shaved or waxed down there? The question slipped her mind as his fingers dipped into her slit and glided over and around her clit in an almost lazy fashion.

Her knees buckled slightly but he was pressing against her back, keeping her from sitting back on her heels. One hand moved to press against her softly curved belly, to anchor her against him. His fingers were curling and pressing inwards and up, slipping inside. She bit her lip and shifted her knees out to press down against his hand. He pressed a kiss against her shoulder and thrust his fingers deeper. She closed her eyes to savour the sensation, moaning softly. It was a shock when he removed his hand from her.

She opened her eyes, ready to turn around and protest when she saw it — his hand in front of her face, fingers and palm wet and shiny, coated with her fluids.

“Clean it,” he ordered. “Do not move your hands.”

Obediently she leaned forward and thrust her tongue out to separate his fingers, enough to wrap her lips around the digits and lick the fluids off. Now his fingers were shiny with her saliva rather than her vaginal secretions.

He slipped his hands into her bra, cupping her breasts, massaging them as he tweaked and teased her nipples, stimulating her already aroused body. She would have complained about his clinical actions if she didn’t feel his engorged cock against her arse. It would be so easy to have sex if he didn’t have his bloody trousers on! Why didn’t the bastard just remove his clothes?!

“Merlin’s balls Sherlock! Just fuck me!”

“It’s not so simple Hermione,” he murmured in her ear.

“What do you want?”

“This is not going to be a one-off fling.”

“I’m not the sort for flings,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”

“Exactly. You are mine. You will sleep in my bed. You will live where I live. You will obey me.”

“I’m not your slave!”

“No. I do not want a slave. But I want a lover who submits to my dominance.”

She shuddered softly, her arousal growing. Could she…? Did she…? Yes.

She did not know she had verbalized her response.

“Good girl,” he murmured as he tugged her panties down to her knee and encouraged her to lift one knee at a time to roll them off her legs.

When he came back to her he had opened and pushed down his trousers. She could feel the material against the backs of her thighs, his bared groin and engorged cock against her arse, his balls.

“I have condoms in my room but I have no intention of using them.”

She went very still.

“I can confirm that I am clean. I had a check-up six weeks ago. I have been celibate for more than two years now.”

She nodded slowly, indicating her understanding. Did he want…?

“I have not given proper consideration to parenthood so I do not have any preferences either way. But I don’t want to use a condom. I want to mark you from the inside out.” There was a heavy pause. “But given our affinity I am almost certain this is going to be a long-term, perhaps even permanent, relationship.”

He was being honest about his desires and thoughts. And she could not entirely disagree with them. She did want him to mark her, to be his and only his.

“I’m on a contraceptive potion. One dose every full moon. It only fails if I take any other potions with certain ingredients. I’m not.”

He shifted behind her. She could feel his cock glide under and along her slit.

“Good enough,” he murmured as he adjusted her hips.

She hissed as the broader head breached her opening and pushing high and deep and the thick shaft spreading from within. It felt odd, but not wrong, being penetrated so deeply.

As though he was reading her mind, he spoke. “Gravity and a different position. You can’t pull away; you have to lift yourself up.”

She relaxed her knees and hissed as she settled lower on him, as he penetrated deeper. “Don’t want to,” she murmured.

He chuckled, a low and throaty sound.

“Good,” he said as he began tugging her towards him.

At some point he had moved to kneel on the chair behind her. She relaxed and allowed him to manipulate her body so she was sitting astride his lap, her knees on the outside of his. When he began moving the friction set off sparks deep in her belly and groin.

Hermione did not know why she was reacting so explosively and passionately to Sherlock Holmes but she did not care. The man was very intelligent, skilled in stimulating her mind and body, and he made her feel like a goddess. She only hoped it was not a fluke, a one-off fantasy that their linked minds had conjured up.

~ooOoo~

He ended up proving himself many times in the next twenty hours. That he could deliver in the real world as well as in their minds.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

 

John Watson was not surprised by Sherlock Holmes ignoring his texts — the brat was probably caught up in some experiment. He was surprised when Greg Lestrade called and asked John to check up on Sherlock, because the genius hadn’t bothered responding to a potential eight. Thankfully John still had his old set of keys to let himself into 221B Baker Street.

It was quiet, no sounds of day-time dramas on the telly — Mrs Hudson had to be out. But there were creaks from upstairs — 221 was old and the soundproofing was non-existent. Curious John made his way up the stairs and stopped.

There were clothes scattered from the door, through the living room and down the corridor leading to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock’s discarded clothing was not something new but clothing that clearly belonged to a petite female? Low-heeled ankle-high gray suede boots on the boot tray next to the door, a long heather-and-gray tweed skirt on the floor near his usual chair, a pale pink elegant looking blouse tossed onto the seat, a scrap of black lace almost hidden underneath a side table. He recognized Sherlock’s black trousers with the matching jacket and purple shirt scattered on the floor, like a guideline to Sherlock’s bedroom. Then he heard it, soft feminine giggles that turned into a low throaty moan, a low rumbling baritone voice murmuring something indecipherable.

John Watson did not want to find out what black lace garment had been so carelessly discarded under the side table — camisole, bra or knickers? He did the smart, discreet thing, and retreated down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind him. He would give Sherlock a few days before asking him about his new lady friend. John really did not want to be a cock block and interrupt what was clearly an intimate rendezvous. Once out on the entrance steps he pulled out his mobile and texted Lestrade.

_Sherlock will be occupied all of today and tomorrow. Don’t bother texting. DO NOT VISIT 221B. -JW_

 

~ooOoo~

 

Mycroft Holmes cursed as he read the flagged surveillance report in his e-mail inbox: Hermione Granger had been spotted entering 221B Baker Street. And she had not left, not even more than twenty-four hours later.

None of the surveillance team had been too concerned when an unknown young woman had shown up with Sherlock. He often had many unknown visitors; most of them clients. Even when it became clear that she was going to stay for the night the team simply made a notation for the next shift; there had been no destructive mayhem, shouts for help, or anyone leaving in a hurry. And if she was staying for the night… it was unusual but the target had changed his habits and social preferences in the past.

When the research team finally identified her as a witch — and a particularly famous one — the report had been kicked upstairs in a hurry. The cameras in 221B confirmed that whatever they were doing was definitely not platonic or chaste. It looked like they had stripped off all their clothes in the living room before secluding themselves in Sherlock’s bedroom. And from the long-distance microphones they were thoroughly enjoying themselves in a very intimate fashion. There had been quite a few unofficial notations from the surveillance team regarding Sherlock’s sexual skills and endurance.

Mycroft cursed his little brother for getting involved with a magical. He could not think of any reason why Miss Granger would have broken the Statute of Secrecy. Or if she had a case why had she approached Sherlock instead of a magical contact? Or did Sherlock even know she was a witch?

There were too many possibilities and not enough data to eliminate anything!

 

~ooOoo~

 

Padma Patil was not too concerned when she saw no sign of Hermione Granger when she arrived at work. Hermione was always in before her. Padma made a mental note to tease the older witch when she arrived. But she didn’t. Arrive that is. Feeling a little concerned she approached their supervisor.

“Excuse me, Ibis, I have a question about Lynx.”

“What is it Tiger?”

“Lynx hasn’t come into work.”

“She won’t. She called in sick.”

Padma nodded and retreated, returning to her usual duties. But the moment her shift ended she made a detour to stop by Hermione’s flat; to see if she needed anything, potions or stasis-charmed hot food. To her surprise Hermione was not in. Feeling a little worried, Padma went back to her own flat and Floo-called Ginny Potter.

“Ginny, did you speak with Hermione today?”

“No. Why?”

“She called in sick.”

That set the red-head back for a few seconds. “Hermione doesn’t skive off so she must be sick.” Then her tone turned fretful. “Why didn’t she call? I could have made some soup and dropped it off for her. But I don’t have time now. I’m supposed to meet Angelina and Fleur for a wedding planning session.”

“I had the same idea and stopped by Hermione’s flat to see if I could pick up something for her but no one was home.” Padma explained. “I was hoping she had talked to you.”

“Let me try a few others before telling Harry and making him panic. I’ll Floo-call if I find out anything new.”

 

~ooOoo~

 

Harry was a bit surprised when Kingsley called him in. It was almost the end of his shift and he wasn’t aware of any delicate open cases requiring his personal attention.

“Thank you for being so prompt Harry.”

“Your memo caught me just as I was leaving Kingsley. What’s the rush?”

The older dark-skinned wizard looked straight at Harry.

“Hermione Granger sent in her resignation by owl today.”

“What!”

Kingsley frowned. “She didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Harry responded with a saddened expression. “I knew she was unhappy and bored with the restrictions. I knew she was planning on resigning as soon as she was financially set to open a private research consulting practice. I didn’t know it would happen so soon! There’s no way she could have saved enough money. And she didn’t ask me for a loan. And there’s no way Gringotts is going lend her anything after we broke into the Lestrange vault.”

 

~ooOoo~

 

Ginny had just finished her fifth Floo-call, discreetly inquiring after Hermione, if she had spoken to anyone in the past couple of days. No one had heard from her.

The soft hoots of a post-owl attracted her attention. She stood up and removed an owl treat from the bowl on top of the mantle. The post owl snagged the treat and gnawed on it while Ginny removed the letter from its leg and quickly cracked the wax seal. It was from Hermione.

~o~

_Hi Ginny, Harry,_

_I’m sorry for the short notice but I’m taking a few days off. It’s not a matter of life-or-death, or anything like that. Something’s changed in my personal life and I need some quiet and space to evaluate my new situation. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m ready. It should not be more than 3-5 days._

_I’m sorry but I won’t be able to make it this Saturday for dinner. Take care of yourself and the children._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

~o~

Ginny bit her lip and glanced at the clock, a wedding gift from her parents. Harry’s arm indicated he was travelling. He would be home soon enough.

 

~ooOoo~

 

None of them knew that Sherlock Holmes and Hermione Granger had taken the first steps on a brand new path, a shared future that would set them apart from their old friends, but happier and more settled than they had ever been in years.

 

**~ooOoo~ooOoo~ooOoo~**

 

**The End.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is wondering about a prequel/sequel... No. I've got other Hermione/Sherlock plotbunnies that are begging to be actually written.


End file.
